


There's the Rub

by quiet__tiger



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiet__tiger/pseuds/quiet__tiger
Summary: Joker chats with a doctor.





	There's the Rub

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "First Step."
> 
> Originally posted to Livejournal 26th-Apr-2012.

Listening to the doctor was about as fun as watching blood dry. It made Joker’s brain, which was normally delightfully active and buzzing, slow down and dry up until it was so much a caked up mess.

“What we’re trying to achieve is a form of personal reconciliation. What we see as the medical staff here is that patients don’t understand what acts they’ve committed. Ultimately the patients—in this case you—will learn to accept the consequences of the crimes they’ve committed. The first step, however, is getting you to acknowledge that crimes were committed at all.”

First step this, recovery program that, spending the rest of one’s life in a cell crying over whatever crime may or may not have been committed.

No one _saw_ him take the blades to that little girl’s face. The evidence was circumstantial at best.

It was the fact that Joker didn’t _care_ about what he did. He was fully capable of describing—in beautiful, nauseating detail—what he did. How his fingers curled around the handle of the blade. The sounds of the girl’s cries, then her screams, then her choked sobs. The transcendent terror in her eyes before the tears washed away basic comprehension.

Step one, schmep one. He wasn’t one of the everyday yahoos locked up in Arkham. He knew exactly what he did to get in there, and the how and why. Were any of his acts legal? No.

That’s what made them _fun_. They got him _attention_. Not always from whom he wanted, but that would come eventually.

Thinking of _him_ must have made Joker visibly glaze over, because the doctor raised her voice. “I said we’re going to try a new program with you. You’ve been in Arkham too many times and it’s obvious our regular methods aren’t getting us anywhere near healing you.”

“ _Healing_ me? Who said I wanted to be healed? Didn’t you just say multiple times that the first step is getting me to admit any sin I’ve committed? But if the motivation behind that is healing, then you’re going to have to come up with something else. Snacks, TV time, unlimited access to those 800 numbers advertised late at night.”

The doctor didn’t respond for a moment, and just cocked her head as she thought. About what, Joker didn’t know. Maybe how today’s cafeteria lunch didn’t agree with her. Finally she said, “I don’t quite understand what you’re getting at.”

Joker tried to gesture, but the strait jacket was doing a good job restraining him. He had been too doped up when they put it on him to leave himself some wriggle room. “Madam, I’m here without my permission. I’m bound in a jacket which is in turn clipped to this chair, which is in turn bolted to the floor. Why do you think that is? Why do you think there is, indeed, a letter J painted on the back of this chair?” He leaned forward as much as he could and narrowed his eyes. “Being _healed_ is far too plebian. I am so much _more_ than the wretches in the regular cells. My wing is _mine_ for a reason. The answer to the question I posed is that if I were not locked into place, the acts I allegedly committed on that child would be reenacted—without the safety on—on your exquisite exterior.”

He let his mouth curl into its usual feral grin, glad some of the drugs were wearing off. He’d be better prepared to cheek them next time. “Wouldn’t you just love that? You can wear my mark for all to see! People will know you met me, and turn to admire you wherever you go. Everyone will know how special you are, that I chose you to bear my symbol. Not everyone gets to, you know. And even a smaller number live to show it off. I’d do that for you! Give you something to talk about at parties.”

The doctor paled, then flushed with anger, eyes turning hard. “I thought, maybe, I could try my new program out with you. I suppose I overestimated myself, and you. You aren’t good enough for me.”

Joker sneered, “Neither are you. That should be your first step—figure out who wants what you’re peddling. It sure isn’t me.” The doctor looked even angrier, and Joker couldn’t help but laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh, almost choking on his own spit as the doctor called for security to escort him back to his desirably lonely cell.

Get him to regret his crimes? Never. He may be crazy, but he knew what he was doing. He didn’t go into a fugue state every time he did something, or become another personality. It was him. Joker. He did what he did because he _liked_ it.

And nothing would change that.

He couldn’t change who—or what—he was.

He smiled again as he thought of a line from one of his favorite comedies. “To thine own self be true.” Indeed, above all, number one. Joker had no plans to change himself.

When he got the chance, however, he’d make a few changes to the pretty doctor.


End file.
